


don't send me hearts while ur jerking off

by crimsonxflowers



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:43:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't start off as, y'know, <i>thinking</i> about Meyer. But Charlie's finally getting warm, and he misses him, so thinking becomes <i>thinking</i> becomes Charlie's right hand at his fly and his left fumbling for the phone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't send me hearts while ur jerking off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wellthatsood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/gifts).



> Meyer/Charlie phone sex, set between seasons one and two. for wellthatsood because I am terrible and think ~3k words of porn is a good anniversary present <3 title and inspiration are from [this post](http://littlelansky.tumblr.com/post/130686344117/prettydrones-modern-romance), though there are admittedly no cell phones in the 20's

He hasn't seen Meyer in four days and hasn't heard his voice in two. Fucking Chicago and its bullshit windy winter weather. Fucking Capone, taking so fucking long to agree to terms. Fucking AR, dragging him out here when all Charlie really wants is to be at home, tangled up with Meyer in their sheets where it's _warm_. The best he can do now is sitting in the hotel Torrio put them up in (AR's in the high roller suite, three floors up, and Charlie didn't even hide his snort when Torrio let that one drop. Johnny's grin made it clear it wasn't an accident and he wasn't gonna let AR forget about the Black Sox shit anytime soon. AR smirked too, though, so it was alright. Business always put him in a more forgiving mood, anyway) and thinking about Meyer.

It doesn't start off as, y'know, _thinking_ about Meyer. But Charlie's finally getting warm after listening to Al brag about his drafty fuckin' whorehouse all day, with nothing but the smell of cooze and cheap perfume to distract him. Any other visit that would've kept him occupied, but now he misses Meyer, the smoke-and-ink smell that never goes away, the way he's getting bolder about stealing casual touches and kisses now he finally believes Charlie's not gonna change his mind anytime soon...

So yeah. Thinking becomes _thinking_ becomes Charlie's right hand at his fly and his left fumbling for the phone. It's night where he is so it's definitely late enough back home that Meyer won't be too busy to talk.

Meyer answers after two rings, his “Yes?” clipped and more than a little intimidating. Charlie just snorts and holds the earpiece up with his shoulder to fiddle one handed with the buttons of his shirt.

“You always answer the phone so sharp, Mey?”

“It keeps the riff raff from calling back. Usually.” Charlie can hear the smirk in his tone, and he can hear how fast it drops when Meyer starts talking again. “What's going on? Did something happen out there?” The calculations and contingency plans for the deal falling through are probably already running through Meyer's head. Charlie's gotta derail that train quick or this'll turn into the most boring sexy phone call ever. For him, anyway; Meyer'd probably be into it, he thinks fondly.

“I can't call just to hear you talk?” Charlie shoots back without really thinking it through, and cringes at how much it sounds like something out of some cheesy girly flick. It's worth it, though, for the way Meyer says “oh” into the embarrassed silence, real quiet and as shocked as Charlie's ever heard him. Charlie grins to himself and falls back against the sheets, flinging the shirt in the direction of the dresser against the wall.

“Yeah, who's the asshole now, huh?” Charlie's fingertips brush over his boxers as he talks, but he barely realizes he's doing it; it's just something to do with his hands. “I'm bein' polite and giving you a call just to say hello and you make it about business. You gotta relax, Meyer.” 

Meyer hums quietly into the phone, amused now instead of flustered. “I take it that's what you're doing now? 'Relaxing'?”

Jesus, how does he _always know_? “...Maybe.” Charlie pulls his hand out of his waistband guiltily. He didn't miss how Meyer's voice dropped a bit on the last word, though. Not a “yes please,” but not a “no thanks” either. A “not yet.” Charlie can work with that. “It's the most interesting thing to do here, I'm telling you, Chicago's like watchin' paint dry.”

“I gather it's the most interesting thing anywhere, for most people,” comes the dry response from the speaker. _Nah, New York's got you_ , Charlie thinks but absolutely does not say. He's embarrassed himself with sappy bullshit enough for one conversation. “I suppose I could let you get back to it if you'd prefer...?” Meyer tacks on, his voice two parts teasing and one part unsure if he's actually intruding.

Which is _not_ what Charlie wants. “Or you could stay on the line. If you wanna.” He says it surer than he feels, but he'd rather keep talking to Meyer and take care of business later, if it comes down to it. His hand's been curled on his stomach since Meyer figured him out, and he decides he'll leave it there til Meyer says otherwise. He can do that.

Meyer, though, Meyer makes a little noise in Charlie's ear. It sounds more considering than scandalized to Charlie, but that might be wishful thinking. He's quiet for a few more seconds, and Charlie isn't sure if it's anticipation or nerves making his fingers twitch against his skin.

“What should I say?” It's mostly amused, but Charlie can hear the genuine question in it. They've never done something like this before. There's a lot of things they haven't done yet. But Meyer's good at everything, and the fact he's even hinting at playing along sends a little thrill right down Charlie's spine.

So Charlie says, “Anything,” and closes his eyes when Meyer chuckles, quiet but warm.

“I should tell you how the game's gone today, then? How much faster balancing the books went without you stealing my smokes every half hour?”

Charlie can't stop the exaggerated pout that breaks out over his face, even though Meyer's not there to see it. “Alright, maybe not _anything_ , shithead,” he grumbles, and tries not to grin at Meyer laughing at him twice in as many minutes. He also, very charitably, doesn't point out that between them, Charlie isn't the one who steals cigarettes every chance he gets.

“This is why you should be specific when you ask for things like this,” Meyer teases gently, before he falls silent for a few seconds. Charlie imagines he can hear the wheels spinning in his head halfway across the country. Then, even quieter, almost hesitant: “I miss how you taste.”

“ _Jesus_ , Meyer,” Charlie gasps, and Meyer didn't say anything either way about Charlie getting off, but he has to give the base of his cock a squeeze or else he'll come on the spot. And where's the fun in that?

“Not like _that_ ,” and oh, Charlie can almost _hear_ how much Meyer's blushing and he bites his lip hard, but before he can do more than wish he was there to see it, Meyer keeps going. “I just meant... You taste like Lucky Strikes every time I kiss you. It's not the same just smoking them.” His voice shakes, just a little, over “kiss,” and Charlie will go to his _grave_ denying the burst of warmth that blooms in his chest at the sound of it.

He doesn't want Meyer's nerves about this shit to get the better of him, though, not when it's finally getting good. So he exhales hard, and if there's a bit of a whine on the edge of it, no one knows but him and Meyer.

He can't resist the opportunity to tease, though. “So you're sayin' I'm better than your cigarettes? Alert the presses,” he grins, giving himself one quick stroke before moving his hand back up, tracing his fingertips over his hip bones and stomach to keep himself from touching where he really wants it. It'd be better if it was Meyer's hand, but he'll take what he can get.

“No one will ever believe you,” Meyer shoots back, the smirk as apparent in his voice as it had been in Charlie's. “That's what I'd do. If I was there. Kiss you,” he says, serious again, just like that. “Until I couldn't taste the Strikes anymore. Until it was just you.”

Charlie has to swallow the noise this time, covering his mouth with his free hand and wishing it was Meyer against his lips instead. “Yeah?” he manages, after a minute, voice more gravelly than he means for it to be.

“Yes.” Meyer's voice is definitive now, more sure of himself after getting the reaction he was looking for. “I'd kiss you til you weren't thinking about anything else, no business, no distribution deals, no AR.” Charlie swallows behind his hand before he slides his fingers down over his jaw, fingertips tracing the skin over his pulse lightly to keep them from stroking down any further.

“You not thinkin' about business? I'll believe that when it happens,” he responds when he thinks his voice won't give away how much he's already affected by all this. Meyer just laughs, though, that low quiet chuckle that always makes Charlie's insides go molten.

“Who said anything about me? It's you who isn't going to be thinking about anything else.” Meyer pauses for a second to let that sink in. “You won't be able to. All you'll be able to think about is me and the feeling of my teeth against your neck.” And fuck, Charlie can't resist digging his nails into the skin of his throat a little, just so he can imagine it's Meyer, before Meyer keeps going.

“I'd leave marks, too. All up and down your throat, above your collar, so Torrio and Capone and all his whores would see them and know you're off limits.” Meyer's voice drops to a possessive growl as he speaks and Charlie shivers. “I'd leave some just for me to see too. On the inside of your thigh, maybe.” Charlie pictures it, a bite mark only the two of them know about, that'd sting every time he shifted, constantly reminding him who put it there, and he whines into the speaker, not even bothering to hide it this time.

“Meyer,” he groans, dragging the word out a few seconds longer than it's meant to be. His hand skirts down, over his hipbones, and he tells himself he'll just take the edge off, before he wraps his fingers around his cock—lightly, he's just gonna tease, that's all—and tries to stop panting long enough to say something. “That all you're gonna do down there?”

Meyer “hmm”s into the phone, thinking it over. “Maybe it is. Maybe I'll just take a while to give you some marks someplace you'll feel them for days, and then I'll stop.” Charlie whines, the sound a mix of frustration and arousal and he's not sure which feeling is stronger. “You can be patient for me, right Charlie?” It's a question on its face, but Meyer's voice doesn't make it sound like one. It makes it sound like a statement of fact, something Meyer is absolutely certain of. The sky is blue, grass is green, and Charlie will be patient if Meyer asks.

Charlie shivers and whimpers a “yes” into the phone. The way Meyer's so _sure_ he'll listen is intoxicating, almost more than the idea of whatever Meyer's gonna do next. His hand on his cock stills; he can't let go entirely but he can wait for Meyer to keep talking. He can wait.

Meyer takes his sweet fucking time. Charlie's about to start begging when Meyer finally says, “You know how loud you get when you're frustrated? I like hearing you all the time but it's best when you don't even know how noisy you're being.” Charlie bites his lip and tries to make his breathing a little more regular, but he can't stop the whines that catch the edge of every exhale. Must be what Meyer's talking about.

“Maybe after I'm done making you wait I'll reward you, finally touch you where you need it,” Meyer says, voice a little unsteadier than before. Charlie doesn't have the focus to guess, but if he did he wouldn't be able to say if it was arousal or nerves making Meyer's voice shake. Now that Meyer's mentioned touching him he can't resist; he tries to stroke himself slow, like Meyer would, but he can't keep himself from speeding up.

“Mey, please,” he pants, not even sure what he's asking for, with Meyer so far away and nothing but Charlie wanting to be good and follow instructions keeping him from finishing himself off. 

“Are you...?” Meyer asks, more breathless than Charlie was expecting. He'd take the time to be amused at the way Meyer trails off—his sense of discretion kicking in _now_ after everything that just came out of his mouth—if Charlie wasn't so fucking _close_.

But he tries to slow his hand down; Meyer didn't say he couldn't touch himself, but he didn't say he _could_ , either. “Y-yeah,” he says, shuddering on an upstroke of his palm. The way Meyer exhales sounds like he's been punched in the gut, and the sound—and the lack of immediate instruction—makes Charlie bold. “What about you?” he shoots back, his hand resuming its former pace, hoping tonight's streak of “talking Meyer into doing shit he wouldn't usually” doesn't fail him now.

“I...” Meyer only manages the one syllable before he has to swallow hard; even after just a few months, Charlie knows listening always gets to Meyer more than he expects, and Charlie can picture him, sitting in his little flat (or maybe even in their office, behind the desk, it's late enough that the game room is probably empty and no one would see, _fuck_ ), fly still closed, left hand fisted in the fabric across his thigh, trying _so hard_ not to give in to the feeling—

“Please, Mey, wanna hear you too, please,” Charlie blurts out, not caring that he sounds desperate and needy, only caring that Meyer's quiet little noise of assent is _almost_ lost under the sound of fabric shifting on the other end of the line. Meyer must be hotter than he thought, if two “please”s is all it took. Charlie moans approvingly and thrusts into his hand.

 _My turn_ , he thinks, and starts talking. “Wish you were here. I could listen to you talk all day but it's better for real, when I can see you too.” Meyer's breathing heavier, and he makes a vague sound Charlie takes as agreement. He's quiet as always, and Charlie's determined as always to get some noises out of him.

“You're gonna do all of it. Right? When I get back?” He moans again, twisting his wrist and thinking about everything Meyer'd said. He thinks about Meyer's hands, broad palms pinning his hips to the mattress as he makes that bite mark on his thigh he mentioned, and Charlie's next words have to be forced through another moan. “Want you to mark me up, so everyone can see.” The thoughts get away from him, and he can't stop the words that come rushing out, too turned on to censor them. “Want you to open me up while you're down there, slow, the way you like,” he pants out, the thought of Meyer's thick fingers inside him making him wish he had a free hand. He swallows hard at the way Meyer whines into the speaker. “Want you to hold me down and fuck me so hard I feel it for days.”

And that rips a groan out of Meyer, the first noise he's made louder than a whimper, and it's the best thing Charlie's ever heard. “Love how you sound,” he slurs out, barely coordinated enough to keep the phone at his ear. “Love gettin' you t'be loud, know you try to be quiet but I wanna make you _scream_ sometime soon—”

“ _Charlie_ ,” Meyer moans, low and intent and right in his ear and Charlie can't take it, he's not gonna last much longer, so he speeds up, panting and whining and holding onto just enough presence of mind to beg Meyer some more.

“C'mon, Mey, you first, I wanna hear you first,” and he's just patient enough to wait for Meyer's barely-audible whimper before he's coming too, hips bucking against his hand and moaning into the phone, loud enough that he'd be embarrassed if it wasn't so fucking _good_. 

They’re both silent for a few minutes, after, just the sound of their breathing evening out miles away from each other. Charlie wipes his hand off on the sheet next to his hip and throws his arm over his face. He can feel the heat in his face still, and it’s as much from leftover arousal as it is from more than a little embarrassment as he thinks about what he said a few minutes ago.

None of it was untrue, though. He wants it all. Everything he said, he wants Meyer to do it to him. He wants it so bad he can taste it. Charlie scrubs a hand over his face and waits for Meyer to say something. He’ll deal with everything in his head later.

“I'm glad you called,” Meyer finally says, voice as steady as if they’d been discussing the weather this whole time. He clears his throat, the only hint of a crack in his composure left. “Come home soon, alright?”

Charlie huffs a little laugh, more relieved than he’ll admit. “’Course, Mey. Soon as I can.”


End file.
